to the back row, which was empty: except for a faint stirring and churning of the evening light. She was silent for a long moment, letting their scattered wits regroup, their attention come to rest. Then she said, slowly, softly, almost drawling, “Now, where were we?” They laughed. She looked back at them, grave, and slowly let her smile spread, and her eyes kindle. “We’ll drop the yes and no,” she said, “since tonight has not turned out the way we expected.” She thought, but of course I have expected it, I have done nothing but expect it. “I suppose it teaches us,” she said, “to expect the unexpected. It doesn’t matter how many years’ experience you have, Spirit can never be anticipated. When we work with Spirit we are in the presence of something powerful, something we don’t completely understand, and we need to remember it. Now I have a message for the lady in row three, the lady with the eyebrow piercing. Let’s get the show back on the road.”
Behind her, she heard the slamming of doors. Manly cheers burst through, from the sports bar. She heard snatches of voices, a moan from Mrs. Etchells, the low rumbling voices of ambulance men: she heard Cara wailing, “She’s left her chakras open. She’ll die!”
They drove home. Colette said, “They took her out on a stretcher. She was a bad colour.”
Al glanced down at her hands, at the leaden sheen of her rings. “Should I have gone with her? But somebody had to hold the evening together.”
She thought, I didn’t want that shower in the back row following me, not to a public hospital.
“She was breathing all wrong. Sort of gasping. Like, ‘urg—ee, urg—ee … .’”
“I get the picture.”
“Silvana said, she can snuff it for all I care, she can rot in hell.”
“Yes.”
“She said, ‘I’ve bloody had enough of it, running around after her like a nanny, have you got your door keys, Mrs. Etchells, have you got your teeth in, have you got your spare pad for the toilet’—did you know Mrs. Etchells had an irritable bladder?”
“It might come to all of us.”
“Not to me,” Colette said. “If I can’t get as far as the lavatory, I’ll top myself. Honestly. There’s only so far you can sink in self-esteem.”
“If you say so.”
They drove in silence, to the next traffic light. Then Al lurched forward in her seat; her seat belt dragged her back. “Colette,” she said, “let me explain to you how it works. If you have lovely thoughts, you get attuned to a high level of Spirit, right? That’s what Mrs. Etchells always said.”
“I wouldn’t call that a high level of Spirit, the one who said that old biddy was up the duff.”
“Yes, but then a spirit—” she gulped; she was frightened to name him—“but then a spirit, you know who he was, had broken in on her, like a burglar—she couldn’t help it, she was just transmitting his message. But you see, Colette, some people are nicer than you and me. Some people are much nicer than Mrs. Etchells. They do manage to have lovely thoughts. They have thoughts that are packed inside their head like the chocolates in an Easter egg. They can pick out any one, and it’s just as sweet as the next.”
The lights changed; they shot forward. “What?” Colette said.
“But other people’s heads, on the inside, the content is all mixed up and it’s gone putrid. They’ve gone rotten inside from thinking about things, things that the other sort of people never have to think about. And if you have low, rotten thoughts, not only do you get surrounded by low entities, but they start to be attracted, you see, like flies around a dustbin, and they start laying eggs in you and breeding. And ever since I was a little kid I’ve been trying to have nice thoughts. But how could I? My head was stuffed with memories. I can’t help what’s in there. And with Morris and his mates, it’s damage that attracts them. They love that, some types of spirits, you can’t keep them away when there’s a car accident, or when some poor horse breaks its leg. And so when you have certain thoughts—thoughts you can’t help—these sort of spirits come rushing round. And you can’t dislodge them. Not unless you could get the inside of your head hoovered out. So if you ask why I have an evil spirit guide instead of an angel or something—”
“I don’t,” Colette said. “I’ve lost interest. I’m past caring. I just want to get in and open a bottle of wine.”
“—if you ask why I have an evil guide, it’s to do with the fact that I’m a bad person, because the people who were around me in my childhood were bad. They took out my will and put in their own. I wanted to do a good action by looking after Mart, but you wouldn’t let me—”
“So everything’s my fault, is that what you’re saying?”
“—and they wouldn’t let me because they want the shed to themselves. They want me, and it’s because of me that they can exist. It’s because of me that they can go on the way they do, Aitkenside and Keef Capstick as well as Morris, and Bob Fox and Pikey Pete. What can you do? You’re only human, you think they’ll play by earthside rules. But the strong thing about airside is that it has no rules. Not any we can understand. So they have the advantage there. And the bottom line is, Colette, there are more of them than us.”
Colette pulled into the drive. It was half-past nine, not quite dark.
“I can’t believe we’re home so early,” Al said.
“We cut it short, didn’t we?”
“You could hardly expect Cara to go on. She was too upset.”
“Cara gets on my tits. She’s a wimp.”
Al said, “You ask why I have an evil spirit guide, instead of an angel. You might as well ask, why do I have you for my assistant, instead of somebody nice?”
“Manager,” Colette said.
As they stepped out of the car, Pikey Paul, Mrs. Etchell’s spirit guide, was weeping on the paving by the dwarf conifers that divided them from Evan next door.
“Pikey Paul!” Al said. “It’s years since I seen you!”
